


Advent VI

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent, Character Study, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, Narrative Bridge, Transition Not Resolution, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2715746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>God, gotta love how easy these are to title! XD</p><p>This is a transitional story. It's got some "feel good" in it, but the two characters are still quite a way from a happy ending or a complete resolution...so it's moody, broody, unsettled, and aching in a lot of ways. But, then...</p><p>...That's part of the holiday season, too.</p><p>Isn't it?</p><p>What a tender world it would be if it were only silver bells and "Fear Not!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent VI

“Oh, for the love of God,” Sherlock growled, as he stepped out onto the terrace and looked up. “Has he been given charge over the weather, too?” The flakes drifted down, fat and fluffy and clumping almost as they fell. “It’s obscene. Snow. South of London. In December.” He shot a ferocious look over at Janine. “I told you he was the most powerful man in England.”

She laughed. “Yeah. All right. Point made—but look at it this way: we may get a white Christmas out of it.”

Sherlock scoffed and frowned and turned in a slow circle, arms half extended as he watched the flurries spin on the wind. “All that means is more pile-ups on the roads,” he said. “Statistically speaking it has been established that no one south of Manchester actually knows how to drive in snow.”

She chuckled again, wrapping her arms around herself and stamping her feet. “Pretty, though. You’ll have a good day, if it sticks.”

His back to her, he stopped, and his arms dropped to his sides. “Mycroft said you were going back to Sussex,” he said, then. His voice was artificial and controlled, faking pert indifference.

“Yeah. Had a grand time last night. Scrummy dinner. Fantastic dancing. But—yeah. Look at it this way: I made it past midnight without turning into a pumpkin.” Her voice was no less artificial, if warmer and slightly apologetic.

“And this time I didn’t run off and get shot, and you didn’t run off and tell fairy tales to the tabloids.” He sounded gloomy and sardonic. He still didn’t face her.

She snorted softly, “Oh, my man—be fair, Shez. I didn’t tell ‘em ‘fairy stories’ last time, either, now, did I? Left your reputation shining, I did.”

“As if I wanted to be chased around all England by hat-wearing fangirls who believe I’m sexually insatiable.”

“Well, you are, then, aren’t you? Can’t be satisfied if you don’t give it a chance?”

“You’re not going to forgive me that, are you?” he said—a statement rather than the question it pretended to be.

“Nothing to forgive.”

He sighed. “Touche. Score.”

“Better than I did last time, then.”

Inside the house someone started the eternal, infernal Christmas music again, and Sherlock swore under his breath. “It’s like being trapped in a shopping center in Milton Keynes,” he grumbled. “In a time loop.”

“I thought Groundhog Day was the holiday for that.”

“What?”

She sighed. “Never mind. A movie. I suspect you deleted it.”

He turned and looked at her, finally, frowning. “Wait. No—we watched it together, didn’t we? Bill Murray. Nothing changes until he learns to be nice.” He huffed, then. “Frankly I thought it a bit trite. Tawdry, even. He was more interesting as he began.”

“He was happier the way he finished up.”

They were silent, once more at an impasse in their undeclared war, where any comment might become artillery fire and all boundaries were the front lines.

After long silence, he said, again, “So. You’re leaving.”

She shrugged. “Yeah. Back to the cottage.”

“Bees.”

“Bees. Couldn’t stand sending ‘em away.” She turned her back on him, then. “I brought honey,” she said. “From my hives. I’ll leave the box of jars under the tree before I go, if I can get your brother to let me into the great hall. He’s treating that tree like a state secret.”

“And if anyone knows how to keep state secrets….”

She nodded, but didn’t laugh. “It’s not much,” she said. “But—what do you get for people who have everything they want….and want nothing that you have? At least honey will sweeten a cuppa on a cold day.” She lifted her head. “Someone’s picked up on the weather. They’re playing ‘Bleak Midwinter.’ Snow on snow on snow. Such a cold carol. It always seemed so…English.”

“As opposed to?”

“Irish? Paki? I don’t know. If it’s my mum picking carols she’s singing ‘Adeste Fidelis’ and planning for Advent. If it’s my Da, he’s singing ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’ And complaining about the Dublin cold.”

“And if it’s you?”

“Pat-a-pat-a-pan.”

“Same moral as ‘Bleak Midwinter.’ What you give is welcome.”

“Different. Merrier. Brrrrr. I didn’t pack for this. I’m freezing.” She turned and looked up at him. There were big, soft snowflakes in her lashes and dappling her dark hair. “So—can you drive in snow?”

“I live south of Manchester. It’s statistically improbable.”

“But not impossible?”

He grinned, wry and dry. “No. Not impossible.”

“Then it must be true?” When he shrugged, she put on hand on his elbow, gently. “Gimme a ride to the station, Shez?”

“You should stay,” he said.

“Don’t have the clothes for it.”

“Mycroft will arrange something. He’s almost God—we’ve established that.”

“They do say God is an Englishman,” she said. “And he’s more English than most. But—no. I’m too Irish and Pakistani to put up with that kind of heresy.”

“He’ll be disappointed.”

“It wasn’t him I came for.” She sighed, then. “And sorry. Sorry. That didn’t come out the way I planned it. Really, y’ devil—It’s time.” She lifted her head, and hummed along with the last verse of the carol, her rich contralto steady and strong, if not as precise as it might have been. “Lovely thing. But sadder than Pat-a-pan.”

She started for the French doors, leaving Sherlock on the terrace in the snow—a dark figure in a dark coat, picked out against a pewter sky and falling silver.

“I don’t believe in any of it.” His voice was deep and rough and it shuddered across the space between them. “None of it. Mycroft—he attends mass and prays and meditates, and he thinks I don’t know. Or maybe he thinks it’s not actual faith because it’s the wrong shape for the dogmas—just like his orientation is the wrong shape for the traditionalists. But he’s got it. I don’t. I don’t believe in babies in mangers and stars and wise men and shepherds watching their flocks. I don’t believe in salvation or damnation. I don’t believe in little drummer boys banging around the manger and being welcomed. I don’t believe in going to the altar with empty hands and a full heart, and having it ever be enough.” He scoffed. “What a tender world that would be. But the evidence suggests otherwise.”

She turned back to him. “Ye’ great gobshite. You think I do? Irish Cat’lick on the left hand, and Islam on the right, and modern sark clear through?”

“You believed in me,” he said, voice hard. He forced a wry smile. “And that I may never forgive you. You believed in me.”

She nodded. “Aye. I did.” She smiled mischievously . “And you can’t forgive me because you fear I was right, eejit.”

“I don’t have a heart to offer,” he growled. “This isn’t a stupid Christmas carol.”

“I didn’t say it was,” she agreed, and turned back, her hand gripping the door.

“Stay,” he snapped. “At least until I’ve taught you to dance.”

“And who’s to judge when I’ve learned?”

He didn’t answer.

She nodded, and turned the door handle, slipping quickly through the entry before turning to say, “The train’s at 5:00. Meet you in the foyer at 4:15.” Then the door closed and she was gone, and Sherlock was left standing as the snow fell…

Snow on snow on snow….

 

 **Nota Bene:** The carol they discuss is "In the Bleak Midwinter," based on an original poem by Christina Rossetti, the romantic painter and poet, and sister of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, also a Romantic painter and poet. When I was a kid, it was not much sung in any community I ever belonged to, and I didn't hear it until after I'd turned 30, so far as I can recall.  It has since become very popular, for good reason--but I must admit, I think I love it most for the very icy bleakness of its start, more than for the rather predictable moral of the ending. You can hear a nice, slightly revised version done by James Taylor [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qmtO6cebcU)


End file.
